


liquid silver

by bornuntotrouble



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Axii Sign, Anal Sex, Human/Monster Romance, Knotting, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 21:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20627984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bornuntotrouble/pseuds/bornuntotrouble
Summary: The Sign of Axii was more than sufficient to calm the lone creature Geralt had spent the better part of an evening stalking, but he had no interest in trying to bewitch his new friend into doing anything that a werewolf (or a man) would not normally wish to do.





	liquid silver

**Author's Note:**

> Edit, for those concerned—it is undeniably out of character for Geralt to do such a thing as described in this story. I acknowledge this, and I acknowledge precisely how unconscionable it is for one to use this sign in this manner.

Geralt closed his eyes and tilted his head back, opening his senses to the surrounding forest. He could hear the creak and groan of the trees, the whisper of leaves, the sound of dry brush and leaves cracking underfoot of some distant animal… and he could hear the deep, steady breaths of the werewolf standing before him, stopped still in his tracks and seemingly hypnotized by a twitch of Geralt’s fingers.

Werewolves were a unique bedding companion. Humanoid, but with all humanity not entirely lost, he had discovered that their openness to suggestion was greater than that of an ordinary beast, due to their being partially human, and similarly more potent than that of an ordinary human, due to their being partially beast; the Sign of Axii was more than sufficient to calm the lone creature Geralt had spent the better part of an evening stalking, but he had no interest in trying to bewitch his new friend into doing anything that a werewolf (or a man) would not normally wish to do. 

He was certain this shifter was cursed by bite and not birth. It was the first evening of the full moon, and other wolves could control their change, or at least had better manners in this form; the werewolf’s fur was stained dark around the mouth, and the acrid scent of fresh blood hung heavy in the air between them, suggesting that the wolf’s last meal had been recent. For a bite-cursed, it would mean a meal of necessity, instinct-driven, an endless hunger to be sated. For a werewolf who had spent its life deciding whether every situation could be best handled as man or beast, it could only mean that the creature hunted for the pleasure of it. Geralt enjoyed the idea of being with such a refined fellow, but tonight he sought the former.

He’d know soon enough which sort of encounter this would be.

He ran his fingers over the beast’s snout. The fur was dark and damp with flecks of blood, but the wolf’s teeth were not bared. A low growl rose in its throat, neither warning nor inviting. Recognition, maybe. It seemed uncertain as to what Geralt was doing, but the Sign kept it from following whichever first instinct had come over it, and it watched Geralt with golden eyes that gleamed in the light of the moon like an unearthly mirror.

He brushed his fingers over its forehead, flattened his palm between its large canine ears. It breathed rapidly, huffing more sour breath in Geralt’s face as he slid his hand down the beast’s thick, muscular neck. Its clawed fingers twitched but hung loosely by its sides, as though it knew not to interrupt such a thorough examination, and so Geralt took his time circling the beast, eyeing the heavy shoulders and thick, brown-black fur that covered its body. It seemed more dog than man, Geralt noted with satisfaction, but it had not run through brambles, or rubbed itself in the dirt, or trampled blindly through a riverbed or a creek. The transformation must have been recent for the beast to have been this clean. Maybe this particular wolf had some experience with shifting. A bite, but an old one, and some of its human instincts had managed to break through the mind of the beast.

Geralt eyed the stubby tail that grew from the base of the creature’s spine and slowly made his way around the front. When he glanced beneath the creature’s heaving chest, he saw the sizeable protrusion of its baculum jutting from the thick fur, and a heavy-looking set of balls hung further below. 

Fascinating.

“You know, I think you’ll do,” he murmured to the beast, patting its chest with a gentleness rarely reserved for wolves of any sort. The werewolf huffed again, its tongue glittering dark and wet within its open mouth, and Geralt scratched his fingers slowly through the wolf’s fur, seeking out the solid muscle of its chest. Heat soaked into his fingers. He could feel each breath filling its lungs against his palm. “Yes, you’ll be just fine.”

He stepped back and unbuckled his sword belt. No other creature was around for at least a mile—at least, nothing human or hostile. The moon illuminated the clearing but the trees cast bits of the forest into shadow, and it was within the shadows that Geralt began to undress, shedding his weapons and armour until he was left only in softer underclothes; with his shirt cast aside, he found himself on fair footing with the werewolf that stood silently watching all the while. 

Two wolves had stalked this section of the forest tonight, and now they stood and watched one another with a wordless understanding in the moonlight.

“What do you think?” he asked the beast, turning away to search blindly through a satchel he had brought with him. Small vials clinked together, but Geralt knew by touch which of the vials it was that he sought. He plucked it from the satchel and held it between his thumb and forefinger for the moon to illuminate. The liquid within glowed gently, not with magic but with the gentle light from above. 

The creature eyed the vial, then took a step forward, flattening the grass with its hulking paws. Geralt felt a warmth suffuse him that had little to do with the humid night air.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought,” he said. He tucked the vial into his pocket and stepped up to the beast; though it stood taller than himself, it was easy to reach for the wolf’s face and lower it to his own, and that low growl rumbled in its chest again as Geralt opened his mouth against its muzzle and tasted the blood on its lips.

Rabbit, he thought. He had tasted worse blood before.

The werewolf licked him back as though it had been waiting eagerly for Geralt to grant it permission. The Sign did not hold it placidly in place, but as the beast lapped at Geralt’s mouth with that hot, wet tongue, he found himself hoping that it was not entirely the magic that caused the beast to respond with such enthusiasm. Its tongue found its way into his mouth, and the tang of blood mixed with its saliva filled Geralt’s senses, igniting the familiar warmth deep within him; he gripped at the beast’s great head and opened his mouth wider, groaning softly as the creature lapped at his tongue, his teeth, shoving its muzzle against him as though trying to drink from his throat. Kissing a beast had never been easy, but there was some pleasure in allowing it to follow its instincts.

And there was pleasure in following his own.

He flattened his hands against the wolf’s thick neck and allowed one to travel further, scraping through the fur until he reached its chest. The wolf had a far broader frame then Geralt himself, and he felt blindly for the heavy muscle of its arm, groping at the creature’s massive bicep until it lifted a clawed hand and gripped his head. Had Geralt been any other man, it could easily have lifted him, or crushed his skull with its fingers encircling it almost entirely—but this wolf simply used its strength to hold him in place, and soon Geralt found himself swallowing the thick saliva that had been pushed into his mouth, and the rabbit blood with it.

With his mouth full of wolf tongue he could not speak, but he knew that no words were necessary for the creature to understand what he wanted from it.

His hands wandered southward. His fingers brushed the wolf’s rib cage, its hairy belly, full from the recent meal, and skimmed further still. It was only when he reached the thick protrusion of the wolf’s baculum that he paused, thinking of how unfair it was that a human needed a curse to grow a proper bone for his cock, and how unfair it was that only beasts should get to enjoy it.

He gripped the creature’s sheath in one hand and scratched at its belly with the other. As though on command, the great wolf growled once more and jerked its hips, stumbling forward hard enough to knock against Geralt, but he stood his ground and squeezed the creature, sliding his hand carefully against its flesh until he felt something new push through the fur.

The heat flared within him again, hot and magical as flame. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this hard from anticipation alone.

The wolf thrust against him, seeking contact, but Geralt continued to tug at its sheath only, urging the thick length of its cock to slide out from where it had been waiting for him—and it was thick, he could feel it as it slid out, could feel the slippery flesh as the wolf bucked against his hold with an impatient huff. It seemed to have grown bored of the inside of his mouth and licked at his face instead, smearing its saliva over his cheeks and lips and hair as it waited for him to grip its cock properly, and when he finally did it let out a vicious sound that Geralt recognized as one of great relief.

He looked down. The werewolf’s cock was glistening beneath its torso, a great deal longer and thicker than his own. It must have jutted nearly a foot from its sheath, the tip pointed and quivering and dripping already with moisture. The arousal of a beast was as predictable as that of a human’s, in a way, but Geralt needed no particular knowledge of werewolves or men to know that he wanted to put his mouth on it; he continued to gaze down, and as though reading his mind the wolf’s great paw pushed him to the earth. Geralt went easily to his knees, grunting as he landed in the dirt and grass, and found himself eye-to-eye with the creature’s cock. He had no reason or desire to pretend to ignore it now, and so he leaned in and gripped it with one hand and drank greedily from its tip.

The werewolf roared, and a thick saltiness flooded his mouth. It wasn’t the ejaculatory fluid that he knew the wolf would produce, but the lubricating fluid that came before—a taste of what was to come later, but Geralt knew that if he wished to drink its fluid freely, without worry of signs or danger, he would need longer than a night to befriend this particular beast.

Well, that was not a concern yet. He would cross that bridge when he got to it.

He lapped at the open tip of the creature’s cock and suckled at the hot flesh with a satisfied sound. The initial saltiness had subsided, and the taste of the creature’s cock filled his mouth instead, so very unlike that of a human’s; wild beasts possessed a flavour that was unique, and it was that flavour that Geralt craved, the mix of pheromone and ejaculate and nature-scent that made the mating sites of werewolves and other creatures so recognizable to witchers’ keen senses. He knew that the clearing would fill with that scent tonight, marking this site as one of debauchery, of baseless animal instinct. The thought of it made him rub at his own cock, already unimaginably hard and aching beneath his trousers, and with an unsteady hand he opened the fabric and freed himself, rocking against the humid night air as though he might be able to fuck it.

The werewolf dripped hot saliva on his bare shoulders, and as Geralt took its cock into his mouth and encouraged it to seek its pleasure, he found its massive hand on his head again, shoving him further down until his entire mouth was filled with animal cock; it pulsed liquid heat into his throat, pressing against his tongue and his palate and forcing open his jaw, and while he knew that it would be dangerous to allow it to thrust at this point, he wanted it terribly anyway.

Only one, he told the beast in his mind, and it pushed its hips against his face and forced its cock into his esophagus and held him in place.

Geralt could neither breathe nor swallow. He could not moan. He rutted against the air like an animal, gripping the werewolf’s sheath tightly in one hand; he could feel the hard bulge of it, so hot beneath the furred flesh, and he could feel the heat of more fluid sliding down his throat. Were the wolf not restrained, Geralt would surely leave the encounter with a broken jaw and an uncomfortably full belly. Part of him wanted that too, the irrational (and admittedly horny) part of him that had flirted for so long with the idea of knowing beasts in this way, but he hadn’t lived this long by letting a lesser head win out over the other.

The werewolf released him, and Geralt pulled its cock from his throat and his mouth and coughed.

“Well,” he said, his voice rougher than before, “I take it that means we’re in for a good night.”

The werewolf made a strange chortling growl, and Geralt grinned up at it before reaching into his pocket.

“You’ll need to excuse me for a moment,” he said. With the vial of oil in hand, he stood to his feet and pushed his trousers to the ground. He even shed his boots and socks, as the dirt beneath his feet did not bother him and he knew that most of his clothing would not escape unscathed if he decided to keep it on; as the werewolf lowered itself to all fours in wait, Geralt uncorked the vial and poured some of its contents onto his hand. He could hear the wolf sniffing at him, and he satisfied its curiosity by turning his back and sliding his oiled hand down behind himself; he was so hopelessly aroused that pressing two and then three fingers into himself was unchallenging, but it surprised him when he felt the wolf’s snuffling snout nudging against one cheek of his ass.

“Okay,” he said, letting his hand fall away. He widened his stance, feeling for a moment rather silly to be standing this way until he felt the werewolf’s hand grip his thigh and its snout pressed between his legs; it licked at him once, its fur tickling his balls as it moved closer, and the second lick made his legs quake and threaten to give out. The wolf lapped at him with that massive wet tongue, slowly at first and then with more certainty, licking at his ass and his balls and every other part of him that it could reach. Geralt tried to spread his legs wider, tried to find some nearby rock or something to brace himself on, but the wolf held him in place and snorted hot air against him and licked at the oil until the insides of Geralt’s thighs were soaked with saliva.

He was too stubborn to touch himself yet, though this was what he had dreamed of for nearly a week now. He was not sure that he would be able to last once he started.

The wolf paused after a moment, then reached with its other hand and tapped Geralt’s fist. He realized that he still held the oil against his palm, and he found that his hands nearly shook as he oiled his fingers once more and slipped them behind himself, spreading them deliberately for the wolf to see; he knew that nothing he could do would compare to the beast’s cock, but he spread himself open anyway, stretching his body in preparation for the wolf, which had taken to licking gently at his bare back the way a mother might her cub.

It was unexpectedly tender, for a werewolf. Geralt found himself thinking that it might even be nice to meet this one as a man, this time.

When at last he finished, he corked the empty vial and dropped it on the ground.

“Okay, friend, I think it’s time to—”

He was on the ground before he could finish his sentence. A brief moment of panic clouded his mind before he realized that he had not dropped the Sign of Axii, and it was likely his own anticipation and the easy demeanour he had exhibited so far that had emboldened the wolf to push him into position so gracelessly.

As the wolf knelt over his back Geralt felt another thrill race down his spine. There was nothing quite like the hunger that drove a beast to this state, and nothing that could touch the animal instinct when a werewolf changed and forgot its humanity beneath the moon; he wondered for half a second whether it would be safe to drop the Sign, and instead found himself gritting his teeth and groaning as the werewolf, now crouched over him, so enormous that its body easily blanketed his, began to push its cock into him.

Two wolves, he thought. Ha. Two men, twisted against nature, finding themselves drawn together, joined by the most natural of instincts.

The wolf’s cock was as large as anything Geralt had ever felt. Three fingers hadn’t been quite enough, but he’d known that, and he’d suffered worse injury in the past; this was still a sensation among the best he’d ever felt, that feeling of being opened so slowly, so thoroughly, filled with flesh so slick and hot that it warmed him like a furnace. He could run a hundred miles without breaking into a sweat but now Geralt found his skin prickling with it, and every nerve sang with pain and arousal as the werewolf sheathed itself inside him with a care that was uncharacteristic of animals.

It licked between his shoulder blades, and Geralt let out his breath and dropped his forehead against the dirt.

“We don’t have all night,” he muttered without heat. His throat had gone dry, and he found himself wishing, perhaps somewhat deliriously in his arousal, that another beast might happen upon them to quench his thirst.

The werewolf responded by pulling out of him entirely. It was a jarring sensation, but not nearly as jarring as the sensation of it thrusting itself back inside; neither slow nor careful, the beast began to fuck him, its massive clawed hands digging into the dirt on either side of his body as it braced itself for the act. Geralt had no space to cry out; the ground muffled his grunts, and the wolf’s heavy panting drowned out his own as it humped him properly, driving that thick cock deep into his body. It was as painful as it was pleasurable, but Geralt had experienced much of both in his lifetime, and could not imagine the experience as anything but a mix of such. He growled with the wolf as it fucked him, slamming its hips rapidly against his own, and he could even feel the heavy swing of its balls as it moved, forcing itself into him again and again, deeper than any human and more satisfying than any man-made replica.

“Fuck,” he said hoarsely, because he had nothing else in his vocabulary that quite described the feeling of being mounted by a beast. It might have been a command, or a plea, or a comment on the act itself. He was certain he could feel the hot pre-ejaculate inside him already, but the creature did not pull out to let him decide for sure. The werewolf fucked him mercilessly, and although the oil and the wolf’s natural fluids eased the way, there was no ignoring the way it stretched him open, especially so with the thick base of its cock; he knew what lay beyond that, and he knew that it was not something he was fully prepared for. It was a copulatory mechanism made for beasts, and the thought of it made his cock ache even more. Werewolves might have comfortably fucked other werewolves, or wargs or dire wolves or whatever other creatures they desired, but Geralt knew that as long as he left the Sign in place, he would be safe, and would likely be able to walk out of the clearing after a few minutes of prone, unmoving meditation.

Or maybe a little longer than a few minutes.

But Geralt did not like doing things the easy way, and as the creature gripped his hip with one large hand and held him in place, he realized that it had been fucking him hard enough to drive him through the dirt and was quickly nearing its peak. He could feel its saliva dripping on his head and shoulders, could feel its hot breath on his skin. He imagined its teeth shining pearlescent in the moonlight, still stained with blood, itching to sink into his flesh. He knew that some beasts tied that way, mingling pain and pleasure and restraint with that animalistic desire. He had read about it, had seen wild dogs and cats and many other creatures lost in it, had imagined it for many a night with his own cock in his hand.

He exhaled hard, spread his thighs as much as he could manage, and, gritting his teeth, dropped the Sign.

There was a moment of pause. The wolf’s hips stuttered, and it snarled and dug its claws into Geralt’s flesh as though realizing for the first time that he was there—and then it roared, a sound even more alarmingly human than before, and gripped him tighter and fucked him hard and deep, hardly pulling out a few inches before slamming itself back inside, and Geralt gasped and squirmed against the grass as he felt its cock begin to swell, pressing against his insides in a way that made his thighs quake; it compressed that spot inside him mercilessly as it continued to fuck him, and the heat and the pressure that had been building inside Geralt seemed to break like a dam, flooding him with a white-hot pleasure that he could not stifle any longer.

He moaned into the night air as the beast fucked him through his peak, and just as he was on the verge of collapsing entirely he felt the werewolf go still. It howled above him, screaming into the air until Geralt found himself shivering at the sound, neither frightened nor aroused, but moved by the primal nature of its cry.

And then it went still, and collapsed atop him, driving him flat against the ground with a grunt.

Geralt panted against the dirt. He could feel the wolf’s heaving chest above him, and its dead weight kept him pinned awkwardly in place.

“Unh,” the werewolf rumbled, its heavy head somewhere around Geralt’s but just out of sight. “Sorry ‘bout that. I, errm, am not usually like this. Did I… break anything?”

He spoke with the same thick, throaty voice that most werewolves did. If Geralt wasn’t mistaken, it was a Redanian accent.

“No, I’m okay.” It took great effort for Geralt to wrench one of his hands free; every bit of movement seemed to cause the beast’s cock to rub against his insides, which were too sensitive yet to properly enjoy the sensation of being so thoroughly filled; he hissed and squirmed until his hand was free, and he simply patted the wolf’s nearest paw and then let his hand fall back to the ground. “And I’m not usually like this, either.”

“Heh,” the werewolf said. “Funny, that.”

It licked once at the back of Geralt’s head, then rested its snout against his shoulder. Its cock pulsed gently within him, and Geralt closed his eyes and drowned out the sounds of ants crawling on the forest floor, the squirrels and small nocturnal creatures watching nervously from a distance, their attention drawn by the noise. He focused instead on the flood of heat within his body, the warmth of the wolf’s chest against his bare back, and when he opened his eyes he saw the glint of the glass vial, lying forgotten on the ground nearby. 

It would be filled with liquid silver again soon enough, he knew. More than enough for next time.


End file.
